“The counterpane critic is starting again,” she groaned.
“Squares and triangles and polygons,” said Om. “They are a bit confusing, for sure.”
“It will look beautiful,” said Ishvar with authority. “Just keep connecting patiently, Dinabai — that’s the secret. Ji-hahn, it all seems meaningless bits and rags, till you piece it together.”
“Exactly,” she said. “These boys don’t understand. By the way, there is lots of cloth in the cupboard, if you also want to make something.”
Ishvar thought of Shankar — it would be nice to present him with a new vest. He described the problem to Dina: the amputated lower half, where nothing would stay put, neither a loincloth nor underwear nor pants, because of his constant squirming and manoeuvring on the platform. And once the garment had slipped off his waist, he was helpless until Beggarmaster came on his rounds.
“I think I have the answer,” said Dina. She found her old school bathing-costume, a one-piece, and explained its design. Copying it would be easy, with a few modifications such as adding sleeves, a collar, and buttons along the front.
“Your idea is bilkool first class,” said Ishvar.
He set aside sections of light-brown poplin, and next afternoon took his tape measure to the Vishram. Blowing on their tea saucers, Om and he watched through the window. Shankar was trying out a new routine on the pavement.
The ever-innovative Beggarmaster had lengthened the platform by attaching an extension. Shankar lay flat on his back, waving his thigh stumps in the air. His testicles dribbled out of the swaddling cloth during the turbulence. He kept tucking them back, but it required an arduous stretch to accomplish, and after a while he let the scrotum hang.
“O babu ek paisa day-ray,” he sang, rattling the begging tin on the first and third beats. It rested on his forehead between his fingerless palms. When he got tired he set it beside his head, leaving the hands free to wave like the thigh stumps.
He was sitting up by the time the tailors finished their tea. The view from the supine position was new for him, and he could only take it in small doses, spending the minutes in dread, afraid that somebody would step on him. Rush hour, when the hordes swept over the pavement, was a period of sheer terror.
Seeing Ishvar and Om emerge, he rowed his platform in from the kerb to chat with them.
“New improved gaadi, hahn Shankar?”
“What to do, have to keep the public satisfied. Beggarmaster thought it was time for variety. He has been very kind since we came back from that horrible place. Even nicer than before. And he does not call me Worm anymore, uses my real name, just like you.”
He was excited by their plans to design a vest uniquely for him. The three moved into the privacy of the Vishram’s back alley where Ishvar could take some measurements.
“Must be nice for you,” said Om. “Being able to sleep on the job now.”
“You have no idea what a paradise it is,” said Shankar slyly. “It’s been only three days, and the things I’ve seen. Especially when the skirts go floating over my head.”
“Really?” Om was envious. “What do you see?”
“Words are too weak to describe the ripeness, the juiciness, of what my eyes have feasted on.”
“Maybe my nephew would like to take your place on the gaadi for a day or two,” said Ishvar drily.
“First he would have to do something about his legs,” said Shankar, relishing his touch of black humour. “I know — just stop paying Beggarmaster. That will automatically produce broken limbs.”
The gift was ready the next day, and when the tailors went out in the evening to continue their search for accommodation, they stopped by Shankar’s pavement. They wanted to take him to the alley and help him into the vest to check the fit, but he was a little doubtful. “Beggarmaster would not like that,” he said.
“Why?”
“The new cloth looks too good.” He preferred not to wear it till it had been approved.
They went away disappointed, taking with them the parcel of hair from under Shankar’s platform. For quite some time there had been nothing from the hair-collector, but in the last few days his deliveries had become regular. Their trunk was filling up.
“If long hair is very rare, how is Rajaram suddenly collecting so much of it?” wondered Om.
“I’m not going to bother my head with that fellow’s hair.”
The following week, the tailors finally saw the beggar dressed in their gift. It was hard to recognize at first, for Beggarmaster had modified the brown poplin. Soiled all over, with a hole torn into the front, the garment was now suitable for Shankar.
“That bastard Beggarmaster,” said Om. “Wrecking our creation.”
“Don’t judge him by your clothes,” said Ishvar. “You wouldn’t go to work for Dinabai wearing a tie-collar or a big wedding turban, would you?”
XI. The Bright Future Clouded
AFTER THE VERANDAH’S SECURITY and comfort had blunted the urgency for new accommodation, the tailors’ evening excursions in search of a room to rent became a halfhearted exercise. Ishvar felt a little guilty about this, felt they were taking advantage of Dina’s hospitality, now entering its third month. To assuage his conscience, he got into the habit of describing the failures for her in minute detaiclass="underline" the places they visited, the chawls and kholis and sheds they inspected, and how narrowly they missed out.
“So disappointing,” he said, on more evenings than one. “Just ten minutes before we got there, someone took the room. And such a nice room too.”
But time had tranquillized Dina’s worries about the landlord. She was quite content to let the tailors continue sleeping on the verandah. No one could have told her otherwise, not even Zenobia, who was horrified to discover their trunk and bedding there when she dropped in one evening.
“This is dangerous,” she warned. “You are playing with fire.”
“Oh, nothing will happen,” said Dina confidently. She had repaid Nusswan’s loan, there had been no more bother from the rent-collector, and the sewing was proceeding faster than ever.
The fearfully anticipated strike at Au Revoir Exports was also averted, which Mrs. Gupta celebrated as a triumph of good over evil. “The corporation has its own musclemen now,” she explained to Dina. “It’s a case of our goondas versus their goondas. They deal with the union crooks before they can start trouble or lead the poor workers astray. Mind you, even the police support us. Everybody is fed up with the nuisance of unions.”
The tailors rejoiced when Dina brought home the good news. “Our stars are in the proper position,” said Ishvar.
“Yes,” she said. “But it’s more important that your stitches be in the proper position.”
Ishvar and Om usually set off on their housing hunt after dinner, and sometimes before, if they were not cooking that day. She wished them good luck, but always added “See you back soon,” and meant it. Maneck frequently went along. Left alone, her eyes kept turning to the clock as she awaited their return.
And when the evening’s wanderings were later reported to her, her advice was: “Don’t rush into anything.” It would be foolish, she said, to pay a premium for a place which might be demolished again because it was illegally constructed. “Better to save your money and get a proper room that no one can throw you out of. Take your time.”
“But you don’t accept rent from us. How long can we burden you like this?”
“I don’t feel any burden. And neither does Maneck. Do you, Maneck?”
“Oh yes, I have a big burden. My exams are coming.”
“The other problem is,” continued Ishvar, “my dear nephew cannot get married until we have our own place.”